


Simple, Dirty Truth

by Scree



Category: Lizzie Bennet Diaries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 05:36:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scree/pseuds/Scree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One little innuendo takes on a life of its own.</p>
<p>Post Q&A #8.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

A light rap sounds on the doorframe, and Lizzie turns from her seat at the computer. She has to look up—and up—and then up further to look the man who stands there in the face. His dark hair is tousled; his eyes are fixed on her, as if she’s the only thing in the room. He’s in charge of Pemberley—completely in charge of everything, from the office she sits in to her access to the employees. Over the last few days, he’s apparently become master of her body’s ability to regulate temperature, too. She feels flushed.

She swallows. “Darcy. Hi there.”

He doesn’t come in immediately. “Hello, Lizzie. I—may I come in?”

That hesitation in his voice, that slight hint of a stutter… She takes no solace in the knowledge that she unnerves him as much as he unnerves her.

She gestures to the bench beside her. “Should I turn off the camera?”

“If you would like. You don’t have to. This shouldn’t take long.” He hesitates a moment longer, before coming to join her on her bench. “Gigi told me that you are hesitant about accepting her invitation for this weekend.”

She can’t keep looking up at him, not while talking about this. But even looking down—looking at her hands, interlocked in her lap—she can feel his eyes on her. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, and that’s the problem.

“Yeah,” she says. “About that…”

“She said that you were reluctant to impose on…me.” There’s that hesitation again. His voice drops at the end of the sentence, and like a deep bass note played on a stereo, she can almost feel the vibration of his words hanging in the air. Her pulse leaps.

“I came here to assure you that it would be no imposition. I would…I would love to show you San Francisco. Is there anything in particular you would like to see?”

The sea lions. Alcatraz. Ghirardelli Square. All of these things travel through her mind, but she doesn’t say them. Instead, she looks up.

That’s a mistake. Looking up means looking into his eyes, because of course, he hasn’t turned away. Looking into his eyes…that means losing track of all her objections, all the real, solid, functional reasons why she should say no.

“Darcy,” she finally says, “I appreciate your hospitality. I appreciate it more than I can say. But we both know that Gigi just volunteered your time. I can’t help but think how uncomfortable it must be for you to be around me, how awkward I must make you feel. You don’t have to be nice to me just because your sister happens to like my videos.” 

He raises an eyebrow as she speaks. “Is that what you think? Lizzie Bennet, how long did we live in the same house at Netherfield?”

“Apparently not long enough, since I…I…” There’s no way to complete that sentence, to say that she hadn’t known him well enough to notice that he apparently had a thing for her. She swallows, and tries anyway. “Apparently, I didn’t know you long enough, since I misjudged your character.”

“Perhaps a little. Not…entirely.” There’s a small smile on his face. “In all that time, did you ever hear me respond to a social invitation by being _nice?”_

“I…” It’s getting more awkward now. She’s remembering all the things that she said about him at Netherfield, and none of them are complimentary.

“Bing is my best friend. Do you remember what I’d say to him if he told me I had to come to dinner when I had other things I’d prefer to do?”

She concedes this one with a shrug of her shoulders.

“I can assure you, Lizzie, that if I didn’t want to go—if I found your presence in any way objectionable—I would make my excuses and that would be the end of it all.” He pauses, just a moment, before continuing. “If it would make you feel awkward, or unhappy, it can just be you and Gigi. But I would like you to feel…welcome. In whatever way would work for you.”

“Yes, and that’s another thing I don’t understand. Is your sister _trying_ to make you uncomfortable? She just shoved us in a room together. Is this some kind of sibling thing between you?”

He shakes his head. “Lizzie.” It sounds like a caress, the way he whispers her name. As if she is something precious to him, something that he holds close to his heart. She doesn’t want to hear that note in his voice, doesn’t want to see that look on his face. 

“Lizzie,” he says again, his eyes sober, “you are not that stupid.”

She shuts her eyes. Cutting off the sight of him doesn’t stop the truth from seeping into her consciousness. She doesn’t want to admit it to herself—just like she doesn’t want to acknowledge that the heightened sense of physical awareness that she’s experiencing now has little to do with social discomfort.

“Yes, okay,” she acknowledges. “But I can’t think about that right now. I just—can I just pretend that you’re being nice?”

He lets this pass in silence. 

It’s easier if she imagines that he’s just being polite. That he sees himself as her host, that it’s his duty to take her out. It allows her to see herself as his guest, too—as someone who understands that they’ll both be happier if she lets him show her around. It’s nothing more than basic social politeness on both of their parts. 

If she pretends that’s true, there will be no awkward memories. No thoughts about what he might be doing at this moment with those large hands of his if she’d said yes to him back in Hunsford. If she’d said yes then, his long fingers wouldn’t be dangling uselessly at his side. They’d be on her thigh, sliding higher, caressing her as surely as his voice does now.

“Thank you, Darcy,” she says, her eyes still shut, her voice a twitch too high. “That’s very kind of you. I’d love to come. And I want you to be there.”

She opens her eyes—and stops, because his pupils have dilated to little pinpricks, and he’s stopped breathing. He’s looking directly at her, seeming just a little dazed. His hands have balled up into fists, and Lizzie realizes what she just said.

_I’d love to come._

God, if Lydia heard that… She envisions her sister laughing hysterically, and that sends another shock of unwelcome pain through her. She misses Lydia.

Lizzie can’t take it back. It would be awkward if she did. And more to the point, she’s fairly certain that she spoke the simple, dirty truth. She would love to come. And the next time she does, she wants Darcy there.

“Next Saturday, then?” There’s a hoarseness to his voice. “Shall I pick you up?”

“Sure,” Lizzie says. And then—she can’t let herself think about it, she _can’t_ —she reaches over and touches his hand. This time, she doesn’t pull away. She keeps it there long enough that his fingers uncurl, that he makes a motion to turn his hand around, putting their hands palm to palm. Before he can do that—before he can hold her hand and force her to contemplate the feelings she doesn’t want to contemplate—she takes her hand away.


	2. Chapter Two

Apparently, being a Darcy means that you can get special treatment just about anywhere. This not only means that you can get up to the top of the Transamerica Pyramid; it means that if you have to go to the bathroom—and Gigi has to go to the bathroom—they’re willing to let you go not just to the restrooms that are available to the public, but to the ones that are a few floors below, in the office space that has the best view in the entire world. She really can see two bridges from here, and they’re _really close._

Gigi doesn’t take long, and after she comes out, they wander in that office space, quiet on a Saturday, the walls covered with paintings by Whistler and Monet that Lizzie suspects are originals. It’s like being in a museum. A museum with a better view, one where there are no guards scowling nearby, ready to stretch out a hand in warning if you put your face really close to the art.

“I know!” Gigi says brightly. “We should walk down. That would be so much fun.”

“Walk?” Lizzie looks at her. “I like walking, and _I_ think that’s a bad idea. How high up are we, anyway?”

“Pfft,” Gigi says airily. “Not that high up. Seriously.” She pulls open the door to the stairway and gestures. “Go look.”

Lizzie walks into the staircase, puts her hand on the iron railing. It’s a _long_ way down—she can see row after row of steps, endlessly repeating. They’re so far up she can’t even see the bottom. 

Darcy follows behind her. “I think,” he’s saying, “that I would prefer the elevator.”

The door shuts behind them. Darcy whips around, trying to insinuate a foot into the door before it closes, but he’s too late. In that moment, Lizzie realizes that there’s no handle on the inside of the stairwell. It doesn’t open from the inside.

“Gigi,” Darcy says, a little too calmly, “open this door.”

The heavy steel door rattles briefly in its frame. “Oh, no,” Gigi says, in a voice utterly bereft of regret. “The door—it, like, locked or something. I’m really sorry, guys. I’ll have to call security to get you out.”

“Gigi,” Darcy says evenly, “That door doesn’t lock from that side. It’s San Francisco fire code. I heard all the details when we were retrofitting the buildings at Pemberley, if you recall.”

There’s silence from the other side.

“Wow,” Gigi says. “That door’s really thick. If you’re saying anything in there, I can’t hear you.”

“Gigi, open this door.”

“I’m calling security now. Don’t worry, I’ll get you out. Hello? Hello? Yes, my friends are stuck in the staircase—floor 45, that’s right. It’ll be a little more than half an hour? That’s what you’re saying?”

Darcy leans his forehead against the door, the picture of frustration, and then turns to look at Lizzie. “I’m…really sorry about this. I should have anticipated something along these lines after my sister’s shenanigans at Pemberley the other day.”

“What on earth is she doing?”

He raises an eyebrow. “That thing you didn’t want to talk about the other day? She’s doing it.”

Lizzie swallows. “Doing what?”

“She’s matchmaking.”

Lizzie looks around the stairwell. It’s basically little more than an emergency exit—concrete and sterile, as compared to the plush carpets on the other side. “Awkward.”

He nods in assent. “Apparently, my sister has watched too many romantic comedies. She thinks that if we’re stuck in the stairwell for thirty minutes, that…”

“That my lust will get the better of me, and I’ll screw your brains out?”

He smiles wryly. “Something along those lines, I’d imagine.”

“Uh.”

“In case you’re wondering,” he said, “assuming that my inclination was running in that direction, I’d like to point out that unlike in a romantic comedy, the floor of this particular stairwell is filthy. There’s gum stuck to it. It wouldn’t really be my first choice of locale. Or my second. Or my third.”

She’d noticed his sense of humor before now—that sly, ready wit—and the fact that he’s able to make light of a situation that can only be termed _awkward_ is all too welcome. Lizzie finds herself smiling in spite of it all.

“We could do it against the wall,” she suggests.

“Cinderblock,” he says dismissively. “Cold. Hard.” He gestures. “And there’s graffiti.” He points. “Badly spelled graffiti.”

Lizzie considers the dark letters penned on the wall in permanent marker. 

_Fuck the NYSE and it’s fucking east cost start._

It’s, like, high-class wall defacement. She pulls out her cell phone and snaps a picture. This is one her viewers will love. “Someone needs to teach taggers the difference between ‘its’ and ‘it’s’. You’re right. That is a total buzzkill.”

“Day traders,” Darcy says, with a dismissive shake of his head.

She can’t believe what’s happening. Right now, she’s talking about having sex with Darcy—okay, about _not_ having sex with Darcy—and she’s enjoying herself.

“Besides,” he says, “I don’t have a condom on me.”

She looks up at this. “What? No condom stashed in the wallet? What do you do if it looks like you’re about to get lucky?”

He shrugs. “What can I say? I don’t have unplanned sex in stairwells.” 

Some part of Lizzie wonders if this is something about him that she should change.

He turns away from her and raises his voice. “Gigi, we’ve discussed your intentions thoroughly, and I hate to tell you, nothing is going to happen.”

“What’s that you say?” Gigi’s voice is amused. “I can’t hear you. Hey, I’m not getting signal on my cell anymore. I’m going to just go over here. If it’s cold, maybe you can…huddle together for warmth. Yeah, that’s it.”

“You know,” Lizzie says, a little more quietly, “she’s probably expecting us to just sit around and wait for her.” She looks at the descending stairs. “If the door is supposed to open as part of the fire code, does that mean that the door on the ground floor should open for us?”

Darcy nods. “All doors in stairwells must open freely from the inside so as to allow unfettered egress to the outdoors.”

It’s seriously hot when Darcy says _unfettered egress_. 

“Hey,” Lizzie says, touching his arm. “I’m wearing comfortable shoes. I _like_ walking. This isn’t precisely the venue I would have chosen, but it would serve Gigi right…”

Darcy raises an eyebrow and cocks his head. “Lizzie Bennet, are you suggesting that we ditch my little sister?”

“William Darcy,” she says, imitating his tone, “I am.”

He walks to the middle of the staircase and looks down. There are still a great many stairs. Forty-four flights of them, to be exact. He looks back at Lizzie. “You have a diabolical mind,” he says, shaking his head, his eyes narrowing at her. And then, before she can say anything further, he grins in exhilaration. “It’s one of my favorite things about you. Let’s do it.”

When they’re about halfway down the stairs, Darcy calls his assistant and asks her to make dinner reservations for two.

“Yes,” he says in answer to something Lizzie can’t hear, “I know that we already have reservations. If you could, please change the reservation at Jardiniere from a party of three to a party of one. Gigi will be attending that on her own.”

Lizzie smiles, but inside her, a kernel of heat has taken up residence in her belly. It’s growing.

“Mm,” Darcy says gruffly, “I’d appreciate it if you could inform my sister of the change in plans. But not now. In twenty minutes or so. But—” He glances over at Lizzie. “Have flowers delivered to Gigi’s table. The attached message should read, ‘Nice try, little sis.’”

Someone else might have thought him angry—like Lizzie, two months ago—but now, she can tell that even though he speaks stiffly, he’s wryly amused. They make their way down. By the time they’re near ground level, they can hear street noise again—the honks of cars passing by, the revving of engines as lights cycle. Darcy steps ahead of her and opens the door for her; she steps out onto the sidewalk. Her feet hurt just a little bit, and her hips are sore from all those steps. But she’s smiling.

So is he. They can’t stop smiling at each other.

Darcy hails a cab. That’s the point when Lizzie realizes that she’s going to dinner with Darcy, and that she was pretty much the one that suggested this outcome. This _might_ be a date.

Worse than that.

This might be a date that started when they were making jokes about having sex. 

It’s not really a surprise that she’s looking at this man and thinking about sex. That’s been happening with embarrassing regularity ever since she arrived at Pemberley. But Lizzie finds that once she looks at this man and thinks about having sex, she can’t really stop. She can’t stop thinking about what it would have been like if he’d picked her up—he’s big enough to do it, after all—and pushed her against that wall, badly-spelled day trader graffiti and all.

He asks her how her thesis paper is going, and after she’s stammered out a response, starts talking to her about her analytics, her viewers, the effect that knowing that you have to report on your daily life has on what she thinks about, what she’s willing to tell them.

The cab takes them over a bridge, which surprises her.

“Are we…?”

“We’re having dinner in East Bay,” he tells her. “Berkeley, to be precise.”

“Berkeley seems…” She’s not sure how to say this without sounding offensive. Dirty? Mundane? Common? “I mean, for you…”

“Have you heard of Alice Waters?” he asks.

She hasn’t. “That’s the name of the place where we’re going?”

“We’re going to Chez Panisse,” he says.

“French?”

“Slow,” he responds. “Alice Waters was one of the pioneers of the slow food movement. You know, as compared to fast food? She believed that food should be locally sourced, lovingly prepared. She believed this long before it became popular—in fact, its popularity has a lot to do with her.” He leans in to her. “It’s kind of amazing. Gigi _loves_ this place, and she is going to weep with envy when I tell her it’s where I took you.”

“Good. That’s… That’s definitely what we want. But…am I underdressed?” She’s wearing jeans and a shirt with tennis shoes.

“It’s Berkeley,” he says, as if that explains everything.

The restaurant is adorable—polished wood, a much smaller dining room than she’d expected. “Good to see you again, Mr. Darcy,” the maitre d’ says.

Someone takes their coats; the maitre d’ escorts them to their seats, walking them past a glimpse of a brick-and-timber kitchen that seems to be from another century. Darcy pulls out a seat for her as if it’s second nature, and then the menus are brought around.

Lizzie looks at hers in confusion.

First, there are no choices—just a list of courses. Second, there are no _prices._ At least there aren’t on hers. She swallows and looks up.

“Hey, Darcy.”

“It’s a _prix fixe,”_ he explains. “Everyone gets the same thing. If you have any allergies or preferences, we can ask the kitchen to substitute, but—”

“Can we talk about this?” She turns her menu to him.

“About which?”

“About the fact that you had them give me the girl menu,” Lizzie says. “Look, I get the score. You’re a CEO and the owner of a wildly successful company. I’m a graduate student. But I’m not comfortable having you pay for me all the time.”

He looks surprised, as if this particular wrinkle would never occur to him.

“Even if we were dating, I wouldn’t be comfortable with this. _Especially_ if we were dating. If you’re buying everything, it creates a sense of…” She’s not sure what she means.

“Obligation?” He fills in.

“Yeah. That. And you can _say_ that I don’t need to feel obligated to you, but we both know it never works like that.”

He ponders this, looking at the menu. “Okay,” he finally says. “Can we take turns, then?”

“Do you mind eating cheap Chinese take-out?” 

“Do I mind eating Chinese take-out?” he echoes. He shakes his head. “Not if I’m with you.” 

That slow burn in her stomach? Not burning so slowly any more. It’s like a forest fire, devouring more and more of her will.

He doesn’t ask any of the awkward follow-ups, like _so, are we dating?_ She isn’t sure what her answer would be. Instead, he deftly turns the topic of conversation to terms and conditions, and they talk about why he deleted his Facebook account last year. They talk and talk, through the profiteroles that come at the end.

They talk, and throughout the entire dinner, Lizzie simmers. This isn’t going away.


	3. Chapter Three

He has the cab driver bring her home.

“May I see you to your door?” he asks when they arrive.

“Of course.”

If it were anyone else, she would think that was code for, “Can I kiss you?” Or, perhaps, more. But this is Darcy, and she knows that he’ll walk her to her door and he’ll say, “Thank you for a very pleasant evening.” If she says, “Good night, Darcy,” he’ll understand and he’ll walk away, and the fact that she’s fairly certain that he bought her a hundred dollar dinner will have no bearing on what he thinks about her. 

She knows exactly how he’ll respond if she tells him to go away. She knows that little nod of his head, that wry pinch of his lips.

What she doesn’t know is what he’ll do if she tells him to stay. She’s pondering this as he walks her to her door. She fumbles the keys from her purse, unlocks both locks.

This moment should feel heavy with expectation. 

Instead, Lizzie feels light-headed, almost fizzy with anticipation. She turns to him. “Hey,” she says. “I had a really good time.”

“I did, too.” It’s dark, and she doesn’t know how much of her he can actually see. Enough, she suspects. She licks her lips.

“Darcy,” she says, and that sounds wrong, calling him by his last name. “William,” she says, a little more quietly.

He’s gone utterly still. He might be holding his breath again. Lizzie steps forward. She has to put her hands on his arms to steady herself. He’s so tall that she thinks that if she didn’t brace herself against him, she would falter. He leans down into her, his breath feathering across her lips, her cheeks. “Lizzie,” he says.

And then their lips meet. The fire that’s been burning inside her all evening roars to life. She can feel his kiss in her toes, in the palms of her hand, braced against his arms. She can feel it in her clit, a warm glow radiating outward.

It’s not even that deep of a kiss. Their mouths open, a little, just enough to begin to taste him. Their bodies slide together, their arms going around each other. But it’s mostly just lips.

He pulls away first.

“Do you want to come in?” Lizzie says.

“Just one moment.” He straightens, turns around, and walks back to where the cab driver is waiting. There’s a moment of negotiation; the cab driver must be thinking that Darcy is getting lucky tonight. 

Lizzie is surprisingly okay with that. More than okay. She doesn’t even want to think about how long this particular dry spell has lasted. Right now, she just wants to enjoy the experience of it ending.

He comes back; she takes his hand and leads him inside.

He lets her turn the lights in, put down her purse. He’s letting her set the pace of what’s going to happen, letting her know that he’s not going to rush—that as soon as she’s ready, he’s there. She wonders if she should show him around the place.

She wonders that until she looks up at him, at those eyes that follow her so steadfastly.

Nope. She doesn’t need to show him around the place. Not yet. There are other things she’d rather show him. She puts her arms around him; he takes her head in his hands. And then they’re kissing again, this time deeper, tongues clashing. He tastes like the Meyer lemon soufflé that they had for dessert.

He’s a gentleman when it comes to kissing, Lizzie realizes. Which is not to say that he’s good at it (although he is) or that he holds back (because he doesn’t). It’s that he waits for her to escalate the kiss before he does. He doesn’t start stroking that sensitive spot at the nape of her neck until she begins to caress his arms. He doesn’t push her down to the couch in the living room; she pulls him on top of her. Most guys go straight for the boobs.

Darcy waits for the invitation—waits until she’s so out of her mind with their kissing that she’s straining up against him, yearning, fumbling with his suspenders, finally understanding what it’s like to be a guy, to be faced with an unfamiliar coupling system that damn it, just will _not_ come undone. 

He doesn’t help her undo them. He makes it all worse. He slides his hands, his big hands, up her ribs, circling her breasts through the fabric of her shirt. His fingers find her nipple, hard already, and tweak it. _God,_ he’s good. It feels like she’s been waiting for that touch for hours when it comes. He rubs her in a circle.

She’s definitely making noises. 

She finally manages to get his suspenders off and attacks the buttons on his shirt. Once she has that off—once she can touch him, can run her hands down the light hair covering his chest—it gets even better. He manages to get her bra off in one go, and then his mouth—his wicked, wicked mouth—closes over her nipple.

“Oh, God,” she says. “William. God.” And that’s when a thought—a horrible thought—occurs to her.

She sits up. He moves away, wary all of a sudden.

“William,” she says, her voice unsteady, her whole body burning for his, “were you telling the truth earlier this afternoon when you said you didn’t have a condom in your wallet?”

He shuts his eyes, his face contorting in a grimace. “Unfortunately. You mean that you…”

“Nothing,” she says. “I’m just here for a little bit, remember? I didn’t think I was going to take anyone back here.” She looks up at the unforgiving ceiling. “Damn, damn, damn. I don’t think there’s a drugstore anywhere close.”

She looks over at him, and can’t bring herself to repeat the words that she’d spoken earlier that week. _I want to come. I want you to be there._

He appears to be considering the alternatives. He tilts his head and looks at her. “When was the last time you were tested?”

“Six months ago,” she says. “And no, I haven’t gotten laid in at least that long, and yes, I’m on the pill. But I don’t have unprotected sex, not even—”

He sets his fingers on her lips. “Not what I was thinking,” he replies. He sets his hand on the button of her jeans and gives her a look—a look that shocks her into silence. She knows exactly what he’s talking about, and the thought of what he plans to do is so powerfully intimate that she can’t even speak.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

She nods.

He unzips her jeans, takes them off with the greatest care. There’s no rushing him, no sense of urgency in the kisses he gives her. Just the sense that he cares for her—that he’s enjoying this, all of this, even though what he’s planning will undoubtedly leave him frustrated.

He takes off her panties.

She’s wet, _really_ wet. She can’t remember the last time she was this turned on. Maybe in high school, making out with Eric Harding. His kisses deepen, and he moves down her body. Her nerve endings tingle with anticipation. This could—this _should_ —tickle, his mouth on her ribs, her navel, but his hands are so steady on her skin that it doesn’t.

And then he’s going even lower, his hands spreading her legs apart for him, his mouth finding her folds, his tongue washing over her, again and again, patiently circling. Lizzie’s fingers find his hair.

He _so_ knows what he’s doing. It’s all she can think, that he’s not just a good kisser, but good at oral sex, good at giving her pleasure. His fingers spread her apart farther, and he’s drinking her up, concentrating on the area around her clit, getting that pressure she needs just right, just right.

She can’t think about anything at all, about anything except him, _them,_ her whole self spread out for him. He takes her to the crest of orgasm, until she’s gasping, until her hands clench in his hair and her hips buck. And then he takes her over.

Her first impression of him was definitely right. William Darcy is one relentless son of a bitch. 

Another man would have sat back at his first success, basking in the knowledge that he’s just brought her to orgasm. But he’s not another man, and apparently, he doesn’t think one is enough. He doesn’t even give her enough time to breathe before he’s on her again, pushing her to the crest. And he does it again and again, until she’s practically crying from pleasure, until her muscles have ceased to work and she’s scarcely able to do anything but lie there, helpless, aware that he’s completely worn her out, and he hasn’t even had an orgasm.

“Holy shit,” she finally says.

He smiles and comes up and kisses her. She can taste herself on his lips—something that should be embarrassing, she thinks, but she left embarrassment behind a long time ago, right about the fourth time he brought her to a shuddering climax.

They still haven’t talked. Not really. And while there’s a lot that can be hashed out skin to skin, some things need to be said aloud.

She threads her hand through his and leans against his shoulder. “You weren’t really joking when you said you had a thing for me.”

“I never said I had a thing for you.” His arms cradle her.

No. He’d been a lot more specific than that. Lizzie shuts her eyes. “Let’s just call it a thing,” she says. “I’m not sure I can think about anything more than that right now. In fact, I’m not sure I can think about anything at all. But…yeah, I’m pretty sure I have a _thing_ for you.”

She’s about to suggest that she see to his needs when her phone rings.

It’s one in the morning, and her phone is ringing. At first, she thinks it might be Gigi—checking up on them, making sure her brother is okay. But the little display on her phone says that it’s Jane.

Lizzie pushes herself up on her elbow and picks it up. “Jane?” she says, aware that she’s sounding breathless, aware that her sister knows her well enough to recognize that she doesn’t sound at all like herself.

But Jane doesn’t notice. “Lizzie,” she says, her words running together, her voice rasping with tears. “Lizzie,” she says, “you have to come home. You have to come home now.”

“But—” Lizzie looks over at William Darcy, and thinks about the fact that she’s promised him Chinese take-out. That what he deserves right now is a medal and a blowjob.

“It’s Lydia,” Jane says. “Lydia and…George Wickham. Do you know what that _bastard_ did to our little sister?”

The hair on the back of Lizzie’s neck stands up, because yes, yes, she knows—and because Jane, nice Jane, sweet Jane, the Jane who never says a cross word about anything just called George Wickham a _bastard._

Because if what Lizzie fears is true, she’s going to have to walk away from this moment—and because, if what she fears is true, the reminder of what could have happened to Gigi—what _has_ happened to Lydia—will tear them apart.

A few seconds ago, she wouldn’t let William Darcy say that he loved her. She thought they had time, time for her to grow comfortable with these new and unfamiliar feelings. She’d thought they could ease into it slowly. Now she wishes she had opened her mouth.

It would have been something to hear.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” she promises. “Is Lydia…is she okay?”

“She’s in the hospital.”

Lizzie shuts off the phone and turns to the man next to her.

“Is everything all right?” he asks.

“No.” She can feel the tears coming, even though she doesn’t want to cry in front of this man. Not now. Not like this. “No, everything is not all right.”

She tells him.

He listens.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t kiss her. He doesn’t say a word about tomorrow or the next day or any of the days after that, because they both know that Lizzie has to leave, and this time…this time, after what has happened, Darcy isn’t going to follow.

He touches his fingers to her cheek as she’s making the reservation on the airplane. “I’m sorry,” he says. He’s put all his clothes back on, straightened everything. It’s like he’s managed to erase everything they did together today.

And that’s the simple, dirty truth. He’s sorry, but he’s leaving.


End file.
